Riding the Rap (21 page)

Y
esterday when Harry said he heard something that sounded like shots, coming from outside, Louis said, “Yeah, is that right?”

This morning when Louis went in the room and saw Harry pulling his bathing cap over his face, Louis said, “You don't need that no more. The one you had to worry about's gone.”

Harry said, “The guy that shot King?”

“I fired him,” Louis said.

“He left?”

“Gone. You never see him again.”

“We still going to Freeport?”

“We going today, so clean yourself up.”

“We gonna fly?”

“You see me taking you through Customs and Immigration? The man ask the purpose of your visit? We going by private yacht.”

“What time?”

“Be cool, Harry, I let you know.”

This afternoon Louis brought Harry his snack and Harry asked if they were going now.

“Pretty soon,” Louis said. “Tell you what I'll do, I'll take the plywood down off the window; you can look out, see the boat when it comes.”

“I could hear the ocean out there,” Harry said. “I like to just sit and look at the ocean sometimes.”

Porky little guy looking up at him.

“Me too,” Louis said.

“You know I don't have any clothes,” Harry said. “I'm gonna look like a bum over there.”

The little guy worrying about his appearance.

“You be fine,” Louis said. “You don't even need shoes. We gonna walk out in the ocean—walk in the water like Ramsey Lewis, no relation to me. Get in a rubber raft to take us to the yacht. My man was gonna pick us up in the Innercoastal, but he say he look at his charts and don't like the way it becomes so narrow by here. He like it where if the Coast Guard's coming you can see the motherfuckers before they down on you.”

Louis remembered Harry the first few days asking was anybody there and then yelling, saying he wasn't gonna say nothing if they didn't
talk to him, so fuck you. Acting tough way past his prime. Now Harry was submissive, as Chip had said he'd become, but without it taking weeks. Louis felt, in a way, he had made a friend of Harry, had saved his life, kept Bobby from killing him; so there wasn't anything wrong with letting Harry give him half his money. Like it wasn't a crime kind of gig no more.

This waiting was a bitch, sitting around thinking. Having time to think, work out what he'd do, was good. It was while thinking about walking out in the ocean with Harry, and having Chip along too, Chip whining, bitching, Louis decided the best thing would be to put Chip in the swimming pool soon as he got home. Not wait to drop him in the ocean. Do it and don't think no more about it. Having too much time to think wasn't good. Then you began to think of different ways your plan could get fucked up and you'd change your mind.

 

As soon as they were driving out of the park Raylan had begun to break Chip down with consequences.

“Here's how it is. For kidnapping, abduction, or unlawful restraint, you're looking at fifty-one to sixty-three months in a federal prison, a real one, not some army base with tennis courts. Now if you demanded payment—and I don't see you'd have a reason to hold him if you didn't—you're looking at ninety-seven to a hundred and twenty-one months. If Harry's injured, sustained any kind of bodily injury, you're looking at more
time over and above the basic offense level. If a dangerous weapon was used you go up two levels. If Harry is released, allowed to walk out or turned over to law enforcement authorities within thirty days, you'll save yourself a couple of years. I'm gonna assume you did not abduct Harry for any reason that would come under sexual exploitation. Am I right?”

Poor Chip. “How can I answer that?”

“With a simple yes or no.”

“If I say either one I'm admitting Harry was kidnapped.”

“All right, let me ask you,” Raylan said, “is Harry in your house at the present time?”

Chip didn't answer.

“I'll give you an easier one. Is Louis?”

He said, “I don't know.”

“If he isn't,” Raylan said, “I bet I know where he is, with Dawn.”

“What're you talking about?”

“You didn't know he's been pokin' her? I thought maybe you'd handed her down, like an old pair of shoes.” Raylan glanced at the poor guy sitting there, helpless but agitated. “That Dawn,” Raylan said, “she's something. She can touch you and tell what you had for breakfast. I guess she's been touching Louis enough to know what's going on. She's sitting on the fence now waiting to see how it turns out. I told her, I said, ‘Honey, you're liable to get your tail in a crack sitting there and go down with the boys.' You and Louis. We don't worry about Bobby no more, do we?”

No answer. Chip over there with his own thoughts.

“Since nobody's home,” Raylan said, “you gonna invite me in your house?”

Chip said, “Why would I do that?”

“You don't have to. You can tell me to go to hell or go get a warrant, one.” Raylan glanced at him again. “I haven't threatened you in any way, have I?”

“You just finished saying I could go to prison for a hundred and twenty-one months.”

The high number sticking in his mind.

“It wasn't a threat,” Raylan said, “it's how the sentencing guidelines read for the crime you're committing. It's in black and white, partner, the letter of the law. So, are you giving me permission to enter your house?”

Raylan let Chip take his time. He felt the man was all the way into himself now, looking around in his head and not seeing any hope left.

Chip said, “I guess so.”

“The traffic's not too bad on Saturday,” Raylan said, heading down 95 to Lantana to take the bridge over to Manalapan, “but we could still use another north-south freeway. What do you think?”

 

Louis switched the video picture from the front drive, waiting for Chip's car to come nosing in, to Harry upstairs shuffling in his chains from the window he could see out of now and had opened, to his cot, turning but not sitting down, then shuffling back to the window, anxious.

Louis was becoming anxious himself. If Chip wasn't home by the time the boat got here they'd have to wait for him, Louis not wanting any loose ends to trip him up. But it would be close to dark in half an hour and Mr. Walker wouldn't be able to spot the white house with the red roof from out in the ocean. Louis had told him he'd put the backyard floodlights on just in case. Look for them like two miles north of the Boynton Inlet and collect fifty thousand. He'd said, “Nothing to it, my man; Mr. Walker, the salty sailorman.”

Nothing to it, shit. It was getting close. Too close. Mr. Walker could even be early.

That got Louis out of the sofa, leaving Harry on the screen. In the sunroom he switched on the floodlights, went outside and looked up at them mounted on the roof, weak spots of light in the dusk. He walked out past the scummy swimming pool, across the yard and into the palm trees and sea grape, following the path to where the property sloped down full of scrub and driftwood to the beach. He saw the ocean wasn't doing much, a lazy kind of surf coming in green, easy for a rubber raft to make it all the way here and they wouldn't get too wet. Louis had on his new black silk jacket, but thought now maybe he should put it in the hanging bag with the rest of his things. He'd filled a carry-on bag with snacks, Fritos and salted peanuts—not that dry-roasted shit, real peanuts. Peanut brittle for Harry, the man loved his peanut brittle. What else?

The shotgun, in the chest in the study; no sense leaving it in the house. He had buried the Browning he'd used on Bobby, had the other one in his hanging bag, and Bobby's piece, the Sig Sauer, in with the snacks to give to Mr. Walker. The sky was already dark out on the ocean, misting up out there under big heavy clouds, a few boats. . . . What looked like charter fishing boats coming in, but another one he couldn't tell if it was or not. Maybe Mr. Walker.

Louis hurried back to the house, ran upstairs to get his hanging bag—decided to leave his new jacket on—and stuck his head in the hostage room.

“Five minutes, Harry.”

The man came around from the window looking more anxious than before. He said, “I got to go to the bathroom.”

“Well, hurry up, man. Gonna take my things down and come back for you.”

Louis ducked out, leaving the door open.

He got the stubby shotgun from the study, went in the kitchen for the snack bag and believed that was it. Outside, he crossed the yard again, made his way through the palms and sea grape down to the beach this time—deserted either way he looked—to set his things down in the sand, the shotgun on top the hanging bag.

The boat that might be Mr. Walker's didn't seem any closer. Louis watched it thinking, It still could be him. He turned around to see the floodlights up on the house looking a little brighter now.

Time to get Harry.

 

Raylan turned in past the
PRIVATE DRIVE, KEEP OUT
sign and eased the Jaguar through the shrubs. He thought about checking the garage for Bobby's car, but would do it later. Right now his mind was set on entering the house. He told Chip to get out and then told him to wait and came around the car looking at the vegetation.

“Your mom needs a gardener didn't learn his trade in prison.”

Chip said, “And I guess I need a lawyer.”

Raylan hesitated. “We going in or not?”

“If that's what you want to do.”

Raylan hesitated again. He said, “Wait,” and went back to the Jaguar, opened the trunk and took out an extra pair of handcuffs he slipped into a side pocket of his coat, ducked his head in again and came out with his Remington 12-gauge.

Chip, watching him, said, “What's that for?”

“Whoever wants it,” Raylan said.

“I told you no one's home.”

“I know you did. Would you open the door, please?”

Raylan followed Chip to the front stoop and watched him unlock the door, push it open and step aside.

“After you,” Raylan said, motioning with the shotgun.

Chip said, “I have no reason to go in.”

Sounding like a different person on his home ground, as if his hope had been restored.

Raylan said, “You think Louis'll save you?”

Chip didn't answer. What Raylan saw him do was come to a decision, like it was now or never for him. He seemed to square his shoulders as he looked at Raylan. And stepped inside. Raylan followed.

He was in the house.

Some window light showed in the front rooms bare of furniture. From the foyer the hallway became gradually darker to where a square of light lay on the floor, coming from a doorway down at the end.

“That way,” Raylan said and kept two steps behind Chip moving along bare walls in no hurry, cautious in a house that was supposed to be empty. They approached the doorway now that showed light inside, a soft lamp glow. Raylan kept his eyes on the doorway, past Chip's left shoulder, almost there when Chip moved, yelled out, “Louis!” and flattened against the wall. Raylan kept going, went through the doorway to the study and put his shotgun on Harry in chains, Harry full length on the TV screen, turning from an open window.

 

Louis paused in the sea grape to look out at the ocean again. The boat seemed closer now, but not much. If it was Mr. Walker he was easing his way in, careful of reefs maybe, or sandbars. Louis turned and hurried across the yard, glancing at the pool hiding Bobby, went in the doors off the patio and through the sunroom to the study. Who was standing there waiting but the Chipper.

“Hey, you made it.”

Louis grinning at Chip till he saw Chip wasn't looking at him but at the TV. Like hypnotized. Louis turned to look. What he saw was Harry sitting on his cot and the
man
—seeing him from behind, the man bent over fooling with the chains—but it was the man, the cowboy, no doubt of it, wearing his hat, the suit. . . .

“You crazy?” Louis said. “You let him in the house?”

Chip turned to him all eyes. “We got to get out.”

“Leave Harry?” Louis said. “Leave the cowboy knowing all about us? Man, you
are
crazy.”

It seemed to wake him up some. Chip went to the chest saying, “The shotgun.”

“It's out on the beach,” Louis said. “Shit, everything's out on the beach,” and ran from the study through the sunroom. He heard Chip.

Chip yelling, “Where you going!”

Asshole. Louis wanting to stop and say, where you think? But not having the time. He knew where Chip was going for sure, in the pool. Him and the cowboy both.

Louis was across the yard and into the sea grape when he thought of the window in the hostage room, uncovered now, but didn't turn around to look. Man, he had to
move
. Get the shotgun and the Browning—shit, dig it out of the hanging bag—and get back in time to do the cowboy in the room still bent over. Or coming down the stairs, see the man's face. Say to him, Surprise, motherfucker.
Boom
.

 

Harry said to Raylan, standing at the window now, “You could open these with a screwdriver, for Christ sake. You don't need the key.”

“What'd he tell you exactly?”

“He said be ready in five minutes, and that was about ten minutes ago. He had to take his stuff down first.”

“He didn't have anything with him,” Raylan said, watching the date palms and clumps of sea grape at the edge of the property, the trees hiding the strip of beach.

“He said he'd be back for me.”

“I think that's what he did,” Raylan said.

“Then why didn't he come upstairs?”

It took Raylan maybe two seconds to decide what it meant and say, “He knows I'm here,” and start for the door, in a hurry to catch Louis outside.

Harry had time to say, “Wait a minute, will you?” He yelled at him, “Get me out of here!” too late.